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Kurt Vonnegut 2
Kurt Vonnegut is a 20th century American writer whose work blends satire, science fiction, and gallows humor. His most famous works include Cat's Cradle (published in 1969) and Slaughterhouse-Five (published in 1973). His works reflect his humanist beliefs and frustration with the world around him. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. was born on November 11th, 1929 in Indianapolis, Indiana and died April 11th, 2007 . He went on to attend Cornell University and enlisted in the United States Army and moved to other universities to study mechanical engineering. Vonnegut's experiences as a soldier during World War II had a huge influence on his writings. Vonnegut was captured during the Battle of the Bulge and was one of the few prisoners of war to survive. He was detained in an underground meat locker dubbed “Slaughterhouse Five” and this experience was the inspiration for his most famous novel Slaughterhouse Five. Vonnegut was so shaken by the carnage and destruction that his experiences not only inspired Slaughterhouse Five but became central to all of his later works. After the war, Vonnegut attended the University of Chicago for graduate studies in anthropology and wrote Cat's Cradle as his thesis. While Vonnegut did not become a professor of anthropology he continued his writing briefly for Sports Illustrated and at the University of Iowa. I chose Kurt Vonnegut as my literary touchstone because his works inspire me to think about the greater value that good, though provoking writing can produce. I do not want to shy away from hard questions in my writing, and I do not want to produce only predictable characters. I believe that the works of Kurt Vonnegut have great value because they push what it means to explore humanity through character development. Prompt: Kurt Vonnegut had 8 rules for writing short stories one of which was "be a sadist". Think about a time in your life you are ashamed/embarrassed about. What was it? What made that moment terrible? Make sure you are careful in your language and use every sentence to either reveal character or advance action in the story. Excerpt: Harrison Bergeron, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General. Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains. George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about. On the television screen were ballerinas. A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm. “That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel. “Huh” said George. “That dance-it was nice,” said Hazel. “Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts. George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas. Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been. “Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George. “I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel a little envious. “All the things they think up.” “Um,” said George. “Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.” “I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George. “Well-maybe make ‘em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.” “Good as anybody else,” said George. “Who knows better then I do what normal is?” said Hazel. “Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that. “Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?” It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples. “All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.” George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.” (the story continues after this point)